Framework
by Feral Phoenix
Summary: It's impossible to fit three lives together perfectly, he said, and I told him that was true. Still, I said, you can fold or tear at the edges so that the pictures fit the frame. -realworld AU. GulcasaxNessiahxRoswell-
1. Support System

Support System

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though.

_(10pokes prompt #1 – scribble; _no more sense than wisdom in knowing)

The call had woken Gulcasa out of a dead sleep, and so he'd already been pissed when he heard the news. Shock had set in then, and powerful rage—the desire to hurt the one who'd done this. The medics wouldn't answer his questions about what was being done there, but they'd told him that he was listed as a contact and could he please come down. And then they'd hung up on him.

That had been three in the morning. He'd gone from shocked to worried to enraged to just plain tired and back all down the drive, and now it was three-thirty and he'd pulled into the hospital lot five minutes ago and after navigating his way through the crowded lobby and the rabbit's-warren halls towards the room, he was back to pissed. Pissed and scared.

Pissed, because Nessiah had gone through enough crap already that whoever was pulling the strings up there really needed to cut the shit and give him a break, not heap on worse. Scared, because the people he'd talked to had made it sound pretty grim.

Not a good combination for three in the morning. But, God, what could he do?

Gulcasa found the room and hesitated for a moment before going inside. Nessiah was curled up tightly on the pathetic excuse for a bed they always had in hospitals, wearing nothing but a baggy examination gown that fell a little past his hips. His hair was disheveled and he looked like he'd been crying; there was a cut on his cheek and a bruise blossomed around it. His lower lip had been split and his throat was ringed with bruises and looked swollen. There were bandages on his arms and one high on his thigh; a needle was taped into his arm, a cord leading from it to an intravenous drip. The bag was filled with blood.

In a chair next to the bed was Roswell—one of Nessiah's best friends, and as Gulcasa understood it, an old lover as well. He leaned in close to the bed, holding Nessiah's hand; he looked as tired and worried as Gulcasa felt.

Nessiah turned and reached out; Gulcasa crossed the room quickly to be at his side, taking the outstretched hand and gently pressing his lips to his friend's knuckles.

"What did they do to you?" he murmured, trying to tease Nessiah's hair into some kind of order with his free hand. Nessiah leaned into his touch and didn't answer.

"He can't speak right now," Roswell said exhaustedly. "His throat's too bruised—he's been trying since he got here, I think, but…" The young man shook his head.

"Why are we the only ones here? Shouldn't more people've been called?" Gulcasa asked, looking directly at Roswell now, knowing his voice was rough with sleep but not giving a damn.

Roswell shook his head again. "You and I were the only ones on his contact list, the hospital says… we're all he has."

Gulcasa was silent for a while as that sank in, and as he wrestled down the fresh surge of anger it provoked.

"What now?" he asked at last.

Roswell leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking forlorn. "We have to wait until the tests are done… and even though Nessiah keeps trying to tell the doctors that his attackers didn't touch him, they still say that they're going to run a rape kit later. After that… after all the results are in and he doesn't need blood anymore… they're just sending him home."

_"What?" _Gulcasa glared incredulously—and a bit accusingly—at Roswell. "Are they insane, or just stupid?! He won't be able to handle being alone this soon—why are they just throwing him back out like this?!"

Roswell closed his eyes, kneaded his temples. "It's not so simple as that. Do you realize that in this part of town, at least four or five people are attacked like this every _day? _The doctors have to deal with _that _along with all the accidents, illnesses, and terminal diseases they have to treat. Nessiah's injuries aren't severe enough to warrant his keeping this room—and I _know _it's not fair, there's no use sniping at me." Opening his eyes, he stared up at Gulcasa reproachfully. "Nessiah's always told me you were temperamental, but he never once implied that you were _this _unreasonable."

"I'm not being _unreasonable. _I'm being _pissed off—_there's a difference." Gulcasa wanted to start pacing, but wasn't willing to leave Nessiah's bedside for it. Maybe he _was _biting at Roswell a little too much, but—God, it wasn't like he could _help _it. Nessiah didn't live too far away from here—Gulcasa had never really realized how unsafe the neighborhood was, and the new knowledge was making him anxious. He wanted to scoop Nessiah up that second and just take him back home, where the streets were safe to walk after sunset.

"He can't just go back to his apartment like this," Roswell went on. "He shouldn't be alone even if it was perfectly safe—but I'm not sure what to do."

Silence, but for a thin scratching sound that made no sense until Gulcasa found himself being prodded with the tip of a ballpoint pen. He looked down—Nessiah had been poking him with it, and now held out a thin pad of paper insistently.

Gulcasa couldn't help but be surprised and a little dismayed as he took the note—Nessiah's handwriting had always been neat and meticulous, but the words here were light and shaky and written in such a slanted scribble he almost couldn't make them out.

Once he had, he passed the pad to Roswell, who read the note with an inscrutable look on his face.

"It's up to you," he remarked at last, handing it back. "You're the one we'll be imposing on."

Gulcasa considered the half-legible scratches on the paper, then looked back down to Nessiah, who was staring up at him, shivering in the thin gown.

"If it's what you want," he finally said. "One of us will get your things… you can stay as long as you like. I don't mind."

Nessiah shuddered and closed his eyes, relaxing back onto the pitifully thin mattress.

--

_Take me back to your place._

_I don't want to be alone._

_I need you both._


	2. Inspired

Inspired

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah. (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though.

_(10pokes prompt #2 – chocolate; _when we admit to what we want)

Squinting a little, Gulcasa pushed into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him, a brittle shiver running down his back as the frigid outside air dissipated into thick warmth. He shook his head a little, then unwound the itchy scarf Nessiah had forced him into and dumped it over the table with relief. His zipper pull had been poking into his chest for the last half hour, but he hadn't dared undo the scarf outside; it had been in the twenties out there and the wind chill had dropped that to subzero. He could deal with being stabbed by it for a while if it meant he got to keep the tip of his nose.

"That took a while," Roswell remarked. Gulcasa didn't pause while fighting his way out of his coat and boots, but just looked over to the source of the voice while doing so—the slender brunet was lounging against the countertop, watching steam wafting from a pot filled with just-finished hot cocoa. The stovetop was off, and he seemed to be waiting for it to cool a bit more before pouring it; three empty mugs lay just past his elbow.

Gulcasa shrugged one shoulder, shook his head, and stepped further into the kitchen, scowling. "I don't even know why the hell I bothered—looks like another storm's going to blow up over the night. Next time one of you gets to shovel the drive."

"We have food enough," Nessiah pointed out from the table—his feet were tucked into slippers and his hands wrapped around a half-full mug of cocoa, but he was still pale with cold. "I keep telling you, we should stay inside until it melts."

Gulcasa shrugged again—he knew Nessiah desperately hated cold weather, since he was easily chilled. As long as Roswell remained in the house, he seemed indifferent to it; Gulcasa himself didn't mind the winter usually—it was just when the wind bit like a wild thing when he tried to stay indoors.

"Roswell's almost done with the second batch—at least have some cocoa and warm up. Don't worry about the damn drive again until tomorrow," Nessiah said, and sipped at his own.

"There are a lot of other ways to warm up, too, if you don't want that," Roswell remarked, and poured the hot chocolate.

Nessiah's face flamed.

Gulcasa raised one eyebrow. "God, what has he got you thinking _now?"_

Roswell was smiling when he turned back around after laying the pot in the sink. "I'm sure I know what he's thinking," he said casually, drawing closer to Gulcasa. "I'm sure it starts a little like… oh, I don't know… _this…"_

And long, elegant fingers were brushing against Gulcasa's cheek, softly bringing his face down to Roswell's before the redhead could do more than think, _What?_

When their lips met, Gulcasa's thoughts tangled and blurred so that none of them made even _that _much sense.

Roswell's lips were plush and sensual, his mouth inviting and warm; he tasted of chocolate and of enticement. His slim firm body pressed hotly against Gulcasa's, matching line for line; his hands were quickly tangled in Gulcasa's long hair. His every motion spoke of sex—raw, luxurious hours of body against body in the near-dark where everything was torturous pleasure and blessed pain—and implied that he could be induced to surrender and it would be glorious once he had.

Gulcasa wanted to make him surrender. Hell, if Roswell meant even the slightest bit of what his body was saying, Gulcasa would have him flat on the floor with his hands cuffed above him in a split second. He surged forward, plunging recklessly past Roswell's softly parted lips, and as Gulcasa bent him backwards, Roswell let out a husky little moan that spiked the lure of the kiss still further.

But the next moment Roswell melted back and away, walking nonchalantly over to where Nessiah sat at the table with wide eyes, still tightly gripping his mug. Roswell smiled at him, tipped his chin up with a finger, and plundered his mouth as brashly and with as little abandon as he'd invited Gulcasa to plunder his own.

Nessiah closed his eyes and released the mug to grip the back of his chair and the edge of the table, arching off his seat to press himself against Roswell. The sight should have made Gulcasa jealous, but for some reason, watching Nessiah so readily surrender to Roswell—who was still disheveled from Gulcasa's own attentions—was brutally arousing.

Just as he had with Gulcasa, Roswell pulled back from the kiss after a moment, straightened up, and shot a look over his shoulder at the two of them, his blue eyes burning. "I'll be waiting upstairs," he all but purred, and strolled off.

Gulcasa just stood still, staring after him. He was only aware of two things—first, that Roswell had just blatantly asked both him and Nessiah to bed at once, and second, that he was as hard as he'd ever been.

"Bloody hell," he managed, shaken.

Nessiah just made a desperate, strangled sort of sound and stood so quickly he nearly overturned his chair, crossing the room to take Gulcasa by the wrist and pulling him in the direction of the second story.


	3. Midnights and Velvets

Midnights and Velvets

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though. I learned about Happy Roses from the lovely photographer Lilyas, whose beautiful rose and dewdrop work can be found on DeviantArt.

_(10pokes prompt #3 – blue; _a rose by any other name would)

That day, Roswell came in with his usual stack of books supported in the curve of one arm and a long-necked crystal vase in his other hand. He had a great deal of difficulty getting through the door, and both Gulcasa and Nessiah had to come help him with his burdens. However, Gulcasa found himself having to bear the weight of all the books as Nessiah latched quite suddenly onto the vase Roswell had brought home—or more properly, the rose in it.

"Will you look at that?" he murmured, sounding completely fascinated. (Gulcasa almost replied waspishly that he couldn't possibly, as he'd been left to deal with the books, but managed to bite his tongue for long enough to put them down.) The rose was quite blue, its petals brushed over in a pale, pastel shade; the vase was so long that only the rose itself and the tip of one of its leaves poked from its neck. "I thought no one could breed these yet, Roswell…"

Roswell nodded. "Scientists have been trying to come up with a good genetic combination, but so far all they've been able to successfully produce is a deep royal purple—which is pretty enough in its own right. Until they find out how to do a real blue, florists cheat."

"Cheat?" Gulcasa repeated, stretching—those books had been _heavy._

"This rose started out white," Roswell explained. "It's given dye in its water, and the dye filters through to its petals to stain them blue. This is how green roses are made, too—I'm told there's a way to blend dyes to create a rose with petals in all the colors of the rainbow. I don't know how that would work, but I'd love to try it sometime."

"However it's made, it's _beautiful." _Nessiah had eyes only for the rose; leaning back against the door, he held its petals barely an inch from his face to savor its fragrance.

--

It was hopelessly charming, the way Nessiah would toss his jaded and unimpressed façade for the smallest—and sometimes _strangest—_of things. He babied dandelions, sprinkling them with sugar water when people weren't watching, and set out saucers of milk and leftover meat for the neighborhood's skittish stray cats. He collected books of all kinds, never even touching many of them, and he had a small chest filled with bits and pieces of old and broken jewelry, knickknacks anyone else would've thrown away.

"The cats I understand, and I've known a lot of packrats, but the weeds? What's up with _that? _They're going to take over the yard," Gulcasa had said to him once, back when they'd been sharing the old house with his little sisters.

Nessiah just shrugged. "Dandelions are flowers, too; they just grow in places some people find inconvenient. And, well—I know what it's like to be unwanted."

He might well, Gulcasa supposed. A little after they'd started dating—their two-month anniversary, actually—Nessiah had told him how he'd been brought up as a ward of the state, a charity case at every school or institution that ever took an interest in him. He'd been orphaned when he was only a few months old, he'd said, and he'd never found out how his parents had died and never managed to find so much as a photo of them. He'd never been adopted, never even been successfully fostered. Too old for his age, he said with a smile. Too negative, too strange. Then he'd closed his eyes and leaned back and said he hadn't minded all that much—he _liked _his solitude. The only thing he'd hated about his childhood was the way he'd never felt good enough, always felt thrown out and abandoned.

Gulcasa hadn't known quite what reply he should make, and Nessiah must've sensed that because he started laughing and said that at least the government had given him a free ride to college—but there'd been something pained and desperate in his voice, so Gulcasa had shut him up with a kiss and a fierce embrace.

So Gulcasa understood about the dandelions, and even though his sisters had complained that he was ruining the yard, he'd helped Nessiah mix the sugar water every morning.

Nessiah was just like that, after all. Maybe he was just too unapologetically eccentric to ever be fully accepted by society, but all his little quirks just wound their way into the corners of Gulcasa's heart until they felt like they belonged there and he knew he might be falling in love.

Sometimes Gulcasa liked to try to find out what kind of ethnic background Nessiah might have. It was like one of those puzzles that could never be solved, and it gave him a good headache whenever he attempted it, but he couldn't help wondering. What precise combination of ancestry had produced that marble-white skin, that soft and eternally messy dirty-blond hair, those sapphire eyes that had all but made Gulcasa's heart stop the first time Nessiah had ever looked at him? Where had his short stature and his incredibly delicate constitution come from? He was smaller and frailer than most of the women Gulcasa knew, and so breakable—like porcelain, like glass.

Gulcasa had worried about it for a while, and when Nessiah had started hinting that he was ready for their relationship to go further, he'd brought it up. It troubled him, after all—Nessiah was more than a foot shorter than him, and so small; it seemed as though Gulcasa wouldn't be able to help hurting him if they became lovers. And Gulcasa didn't want to hurt him.

Nessiah had been silent for a moment, and then—God, Gulcasa would remember it every day for the rest of his life—he'd sank softly into Gulcasa's arms and looked up at him out of those amazing eyes and said, "I want you to be the one who can break me, but doesn't."

And after that, they'd gone to bed. Gulcasa had never felt the kind of tenderness he had with Nessiah with anyone else; it tempered their passion and brought out a deep, gentle kind of sensitivity in them both. Neither had he ever physically needed someone so badly or so much. Nessiah was always so unguarded, so vulnerable when they slept together—Gulcasa wanted to protect and cherish him forever.

Not to say that they were never wild with each other, or frivolous, or carried away—it was just that afterwards, that feeling never changed. Gulcasa would always watch Nessiah drop off to sleep curled up against him and wonder how in the hell he'd mustered the luck to wind up with something so precious.

--

There were never such doubts about Roswell. The first time Gulcasa had wondered aloud, the young man had smiled and pulled out his wallet to display a picture of his parents.

"My mother was French, and my da was Irish," he explained easily. "They met in Britain, and moved to America while they were getting ready to have me. Mostly my surroundings have determined the way I talk, but people tell me I've still got a bit of the brogue." And he'd shrugged. Gulcasa nodded, because it was true, and now he had Roswell's looks and his hint of an accent answered.

That had been before—way back when Gulcasa and Nessiah were first getting together, perhaps the first time Gulcasa and Roswell had ever met. Nessiah had mentioned before—laughing over it the entire time—that Roswell was basically his mother without the curves. Looking over the photo Roswell had shown him, Gulcasa had realized just how true that was; he and his mother shared stature and facial structure and even the same silken ash-brown hair. The only real difference—other than gender—was the fact that Roswell's mother had gray-green eyes, where Roswell had inherited his father's laughing summer-sky blue.

It had to have been a few weeks after that initial meeting that Gulcasa had finally asked Nessiah frankly about his history with his pretty friend; Nessiah had laughed and answered him honestly.

"We were at college together, and we hit it off right away," Nessiah had told him. "I'd never met anyone who could get nearly as stupid over books as I do. And yes, we were lovers, although primarily we were friends. It wasn't because we were in love or anything, although we certainly did have chemistry. Roswell's parents died about a year after we met—it was a hard time for him, and he needed someone in a bad way. He was my best friend, so of course I let him into my bed. It only lasted for about another year—our schedules couldn't take it. We'd see each other maybe twice a week if we were lucky, and we were only getting into bed once every other month by the end of it. Eventually we just decided we weren't cut out to be lovers and went back to being just friends, with minimal regrets."

There were times when Gulcasa still didn't know quite what they were doing, all in the same house together. He'd never minded Roswell, but they'd only known each other distantly in the past. Now that they lived together, Gulcasa found that he _liked _Roswell's wry humor, his gentle and tolerant disposition, and his effortless mastery of domestic skills. But he still wasn't quite comfortable with the fact that he and Nessiah were living with an old lover… especially the way things were now.

On the one hand, it always made Gulcasa feel a little angry, a little jealous and possessive when he saw the two of them close. He didn't really want to share Nessiah with anyone, and he _knew _full well that Nessiah still slept with Roswell sometimes, just the two of them together. He would come home after a job to find one naked in bed and the other with that dazed and pleasured expression, and black spite would boil up in him until he left the house again.

But on the other—God, Gulcasa was sure that without Roswell, his _own _relationship with Nessiah would never have recovered. That night when autumn was becoming winter had been terrible enough before a tired doctor had come in to do his tests and tried to slip that cold metal device between Nessiah's legs and he'd all but gone crazy and cried and fought until he'd had to be sedated. It was all the proof the hospital had needed, but they'd still checked to make sure and the tests had come back positive.

For a while after that Nessiah had been shaky and scared and hesitant and tearful, and frustrated with himself for being so. Between the two of them, Gulcasa and Roswell had had to get Nessiah completely re-accustomed to being touched, had had to teach his body all over again the difference between what was a good touch and what was bad. Roswell had been patient even when Gulcasa had despaired, until finally Nessiah had brought him to bed while Roswell had been out and they'd tried and gotten through it.

_I need you both, _Nessiah had written in the hospital, and he most certainly had.

The way things were now—Gulcasa just didn't know anymore. He loved Nessiah with the whole of his heart and didn't like that Nessiah felt for both him and Roswell, but—when Roswell kissed him, his body wanted so much it hurt, and when the three of them went to bed together…

Roswell was teaching him things about sex and lovemaking, about Nessiah's body, about his _own _body that Gulcasa had never been aware of. For instance, he'd known since the first week he and Nessiah had become lovers that Nessiah's back was highly sensitive and just a few touches in the right places were enough to arouse him; he'd also been aware that Nessiah was a bit ticklish along his sides and belly. But he'd never really known how to take advantage of those things; Roswell had shown him that.

And Roswell himself—he was experienced and easygoing, liked to have his shoulders kissed and went helpless at the ghost of a touch along the insides of his thighs. He was unusually flexible, had wicked and inventive hands, and gave excellent head—a skill Gulcasa and Nessiah had never really been able to master.

Worse, he seemed to completely understand the way Gulcasa felt about their strange living situation, and always gave Gulcasa space to have Nessiah to himself when he started getting overly jealous.

Either Gulcasa would eventually come to terms with the three of them as a relationship, or… he supposed Roswell would become unnecessary one day, and leave.

Until then, Gulcasa just had to… try to bear with things, and keep up with the situation even when he didn't fully understand it.

--

"You should bring home more of these sometime," Gulcasa remarked as Nessiah was persuaded to set the vase down on the table. "A big flush or—bouquet or whatever you call it—of blue roses would be nice in this room."

Two pairs of blue eyes lifted and locked on his own—the sapphire that made his heart turn over with love, and the aquamarine that pulled at his belly and confused him terribly—in a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"Wouldn't you rather have red or black?" Roswell asked, arching one eyebrow as he named Gulcasa's favorite colors.

"I like blue, too," Gulcasa said, running a hand through his hair self-consciously.

Nessiah smiled, and he looked away, feeling his face go red.


	4. Open Heart Night

Open Heart Night

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though. "Broken" © Seether, Amy Lee.

_(10pokes prompt #4 – karaoke;_ she's got a new microphone)

Even though it was ten-thirty, the nightclub was still filled with people—there was someone at almost every table, and all the bar stools were taken. The waitresses clicked along energetically in their spiked heels, cheerfully balancing full platters of food and drink off to those who'd made the orders, asking if they were _sure _they didn't want anything else with that now, honey.

At least, Roswell imagined they were clicking along. He couldn't hear much beyond the confines of his own table; the speakers were much too loud for that. He hadn't been to a bar late at night in some time, and now it was a bit of a culture shock to be back at one.

Not so for Gulcasa. The tall redhead lounged in his chair with an easy smile, one hand on the strap of his black guitar case and the other wrapped loosely around his shot glass, the toe of his shoe going up and down to the time of the music. Roswell was sure that this was the most relaxed he'd ever seen Gulcasa since he and Nessiah had moved in—with the possible exception of when he was asleep.

The club was called the _Clare d'Lune, _and Nessiah had told Roswell on the way here that its main attraction was the way that on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, there was an "open mic"-type stage where local bands and singers and the occasional star could get up onstage and try their hand at wooing the crowd. The stage was also a good karaoke bar in its own right, so that just about anybody could get up and give the microphone a try if he or she wanted to.

The radio went off somewhere around seven at night and stayed off until about one-thirty or so, when the staff had to shoo their customers off to start closing. Between them, Gulcasa and Nessiah had managed to get them all to the club after the majority of the spotlight hogs were getting finished, and within the first fifteen minutes of their arrival, Nessiah had successfully commandeered the stage.

Roswell had heard Nessiah sing before, but he never really got tired of it. It had to be impossible to—with Nessiah's pure voice and wide range, he was knocking out the list of all the DJ's best material and adding quite a few _a cappella _numbers. Both Roswell and Gulcasa told him only half-teasingly that he ought to enter some of those nationwide talent competitions whenever they caught him singing to the car radio or in the shower or along with his player when he had headphones on. Nessiah always shook his head at them and said the only reason he _didn't _was because the excessive media attention would drive him insane in a few seconds. They all got a good laugh out of that—because it was true. For as long as Roswell had known him, Nessiah had always needed his privacy; if he didn't get it, he got bitchy.

A finger in Roswell's shoulder interrupted his train of thought; he turned to see that apparently Gulcasa had been trying to get his attention for a while. Roswell made a face and leaned closer. "I'm sorry, what did you want?"

Wearing a crooked grin, Gulcasa jerked a thumb in Nessiah's direction. "He sure is something, isn't he?"

Roswell smiled. "He most certainly is—though, at the moment, I'm almost given to admire _you _more!" He pointed at the shot glass in Gulcasa's hand—it was his fourth of the night. "It only takes half of one of those for me to be unconscious on the _floor. _I don't know where you put it all."

Gulcasa nodded. "That's right—you don't drink, do you? Well, there's one upside to you not being able to hold your liquor—the rest of us know there'll always be a designated driver around, so we can get good and smashed." With that, he knocked back the rest of his tequila; Roswell had to laugh.

Nessiah seemed to have finished his song. When the applause died down, he smiled and looked around and asked, "Can we get another mic up here?" As a waitress hurried to get one, he walked to the edge of the stage and beckoned.

Gulcasa was already halfway up, the empty glass on the table and his guitar cradled close to his body. There were murmurs of excitement as he pushed past the other tables to get to the stage and clambered up, sitting in a chair Nessiah had gotten pulled up with the extra microphone. There was a brief pause while they got the stand adjusted, and finally Gulcasa crooked his fingers along the frets and began to play.

Nessiah stood and watched even as the clientele did as Gulcasa closed his eyes and began to sing softly.

_"I wanted you to know that I love the way you laugh; I wanna hold you high and steal your pain away. I keep your photograph; I know it's served me well. I wanna hold you high and steal your pain, 'cause I'm broken when I'm open and I don't feel like I am strong enough. 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome, and I don't feel right when you're gone away…"_

Roswell leaned forward, fascinated. Gulcasa's voice was rock-star rough, and better yet, the notes held real pain and love when he sang them. Nessiah's singing was professional-quality, to be sure, but Gulcasa could probably hold his own in those nationwide talent competitions if _he _ever entered them.

Gulcasa kept playing, but Nessiah picked up the second verse.

_"The worst is over now and we can breathe again. I wanna hold you high, you steal my pain away. There's so much left to learn, and no one left to fight; I wanna hold you high and steal your pain…"_

They were looking at each other now, and half-ignoring their audience—it was plain to see that both of them meant the words as a personal sentiment.

_"'Cause I'm broken when I'm open and I don't feel like I am strong enough. 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome, and I don't feel right when you're gone away…"_

This was obviously a long-standing ritual between the two of them, Roswell realized; Nessiah consciously held back and muted his words slightly so as not to overpower Gulcasa when they sang together. It was so natural that it had to be well practiced; Roswell himself only noticed it because he was knowledgeable about music.

When the song was over, the crowd roared its approval; Roswell cheered with them. Beyond it being a wonderful thing that Gulcasa and Nessiah had performed that song so well, he was overcome by this place itself. It was so rare to find a nightclub in a small town in Michigan where two young men could get up and sing a duet—a _love song_—like this and be hailed for it instead of harassed; hell, it was rare to find one where the odd trio of a Jew, a witch, and an agnostic could walk in without someone rushing to make a bad joke about it. This place… truly was special.

"Hey, we got any more mics in this place?" Gulcasa called over the clamor, his expression cheerful and wicked.

Apparently there were, because the waitresses were scurrying into the back to find another.

"If there's a Mr. Branthèse in the house, we'd like him to join us," Nessiah said mildly, the picture of innocence and charm.

_You're not serious, _Roswell thought.

"And, yes, we're serious, so if you please…?" Nessiah went on.

_Unbelievable… _But Roswell got up and picked his way to the stage with them, standing in front of it and staring up at them with his hands on his hips. "What is all _this _for?"

Gulcasa just grinned down at him cheekily. "Hey, you live with us, you _sleep _with us, you sing at the _Clare _with us. It was in the fine print of your contract."

Nessiah didn't add anything; it looked like he was too busy holding back laughter.

_So that's what this is about…? _Roswell wasn't being put on the spot or made fun of—at least, not just. He was being _included—_by Gulcasa, no less. So that he could go from being the interloper, the third partner, to fusing their unit together. "If I sing, I get to pick the song, right?" he asked blithely.

"Seems fair," was Gulcasa's reply.

Roswell smiled. "How much Savage Garden do you two know?"


	5. Daffodil

Daffodil

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though.

_(10pokes prompt #5 – pancakes;_ the sun is always shining when I'm with you)

Of course, Nessiah didn't tell Gulcasa _why _they were going for an early-morning walk. If he did, his lover would get all balky and sulky and retreat immovably into the shelter of the house. Every time Gulcasa asked—with less and less patience—what the point was, Nessiah just answered, "You'll see".

Someone else would probably be annoyed with him by now, but… well, when you loved someone this truly and deeply and hopelessly, even their flaws were endearing.

Nessiah made a point to take his time along the soft trail in the woods, then bent when he found the little patches of red berries.

"What are those?" Gulcasa wanted to know, kneeling to take a closer look.

"They're strawberries," Nessiah told him. "Wild strawberries." And he lifted some of the little fruit on the curling green stems and leaves so that Gulcasa could look at them more clearly, enjoying the way the little verdant tendrils poked and tickled his fingers. The berries were only about the size of the raspberries in store cartons, ridiculously cute and tiny. They were also much sweeter than store-bought strawberries, which tended to be a little too sour for Nessiah's taste.

Carefully, he picked a handful of the little berries, then set down the wicker basket he'd brought along. Opening it, he took out a cloth napkin, and folded it carefully around the berries before placing them carefully inside.

Gulcasa swore softly. "You have me out here at the crack of dawn looking for _fruit?"_

Nessiah smiled and rested his elbow on his thigh, the side of his face on the heel of his hand and his curled fingers. "Oh, Gulcasa. You took me into your home, me _and_ someone practically a complete stranger to you, because I begged you to—knowing when you did that I was helpless, and would only be a burden on you until I recovered. You didn't hesitate when it came to that, so what's a little walk like this to you?"

That made Gulcasa laugh, as Nessiah had known it would. "…I suppose that's true."

He stood, and Nessiah got to his feet, too. He closed the distance between them in shy steps and rose on his toes as Gulcasa leaned down, fitting his mouth softly to his lover's as the curious woods looked on.

--

Nessiah had known at least a little bit what a good relationship was like before he'd met Gulcasa. Mostly that had been because of Roswell; there weren't many people who'd been able to tolerate him in their living spaces for long before that point. He knew what it was like to be cared for and looked after, to look after and care for someone else, in an easy and undemanding way. Looking back at his and Roswell's year-long college affair, Nessiah had decided that it was probably much like that of a comfortably married couple: an easy and sweet kind of love that stemmed from friendship first.

Even with that, though, he'd been entirely unprepared for the way things were with Gulcasa. To be loved both deeply and implacably, brightly and burningly—it was like, like juxtaposing the Appalachian mountain range with a brushfire. And he'd never felt so _cherished, _so _adored _in his life. He and Gulcasa were perfect equals on so many levels, and Gulcasa would amiably follow his lead on some matters, but then when something happened to shake Nessiah and tear at the edges of his world—or even when he just felt bruised and vulnerable from day-to-day living—Gulcasa would just cradle him and make him feel precious and breakable and coddled. Protected. Loved.

They must have been together for months before Gulcasa had confessed that his heart had taken that first stumble the first time Nessiah had ever looked at him. Nessiah had wanted to accuse him of making it up, but the words had felt true, and after a brief silence he'd managed to admit that the second he'd met _Gulcasa's _eyes, he'd been a goner.

"I look weird," Gulcasa would say.

"You look _exotic," _Nessiah would correct. "Take my word for it, it's very sexually intriguing."

So much blood crossed in Gulcasa's veins in so many improbable combinations that he could hardly be anything _but _exotic. There was a good deal of Spanish, and roughly as much Japanese—that much he was sure about; both sides of his family were Jewish, further back than he cared to keep track. There had to be at least a little European, too; Gulcasa was easily the tallest person Nessiah had ever met at his six feet and five inches. Scottish, Nessiah liked to think, or maybe old, old Nordic. There wasn't anyone else in the _world _with the bright scarlet hair, the slightest hint of olive in the skin, and eyes like bottled honey that ran in Gulcasa's family.

"Considering the number of men and women chasing you with hearts in their eyes, I still can't imagine why you ever went with someone like me," Nessiah had said one night while they lay naked together, watching the ceiling and cooling down.

Gulcasa shrugged. "What can I say? You're the only one I noticed. It was fate." He smiled and brushed soft kisses across Nessiah's belly in the way that made him shiver all over with pleasure. "Just goes to prove God's got a strange sense of humor."

Nessiah loved every little thing about Gulcasa. He couldn't help it. He melted over his lover's tender moments and his stubborn ones, smiled at his difficult moods, and understood and accepted all Gulcasa's beliefs—even if he didn't particularly share them. He loved how Gulcasa was always, always strong for him… and he loved that in the dark and secret hours of the night, he could make such a powerful man tremble with no more than a touch.

He loved, loved, loved the way that Gulcasa had accepted both him and Roswell into his home without question on the night that had left Nessiah shattered with little hope of ever fully healing. His heart just ached over the way Gulcasa had so carefully and painstakingly acknowledged his wounds and gone about the business of putting him back together. And he could be nothing less than grateful about the fact that Gulcasa kept all his struggles to continue accepting silent.

Nessiah wasn't stupid, and he wasn't shortsighted. He saw the way Gulcasa's eyes went hard and cold and unreadable sometimes around Roswell, and could feel the way he still held back sometimes when they were alone in the house together or when they went to bed. Gulcasa had always been a little possessive; that was just the way he was. By asking him to bring Roswell home with them, Nessiah had silently been asking him to bend a little. Gulcasa was trying so hard that it was painful to watch sometimes.

It wasn't that Gulcasa didn't like Roswell—Nessiah _knew _that Gulcasa liked him, and maybe that was the problem. One thing Gulcasa believed very strongly was that for every person in the world, there was one person who was meant to love them and be loved by them, one person only. Nessiah had always disagreed with that. There were different kinds of love, different degrees of love. Nessiah loved Gulcasa with everything he had, and that didn't stop him from loving Roswell, too—the love was just different, that was all. Not as passionate. Softer, quieter, less intense. If not for that night, they could have remained friends and nothing more, but—

They couldn't go back now. Nessiah still needed both Gulcasa and Roswell, and knew he would fall apart again without them. It wasn't the same, could never be the same, but—he knew that Roswell had begun to feel something for Gulcasa, and was sure that Gulcasa felt something for Roswell… something he was having difficulty coming to terms with.

Nessiah hoped he came to terms with it soon. You couldn't make three halves into a whole unless they were all willing.

--

"First you drag me back and forth across the woods and field, and now you want me to do _what?" _It was a protest, almost a complaint, but Gulcasa offered it wearily and halfheartedly.

"We still need apples," Nessiah told him gently.

"The tree doesn't belong to us. The tree is sitting on the other side of the fence that marks the property of the nastiest conservative in all of Michigan," Gulcasa pointed out, raking both hands through his hair and making it stand up in sexy spikes. "The one who goes apoplectic and breaks out in hives when _straight people _admit to doing anything other than the requisite nightly missionary. If we get caught here he's gonna kill us."

"I'll be quick—and we won't cross the fence. Just let me stand on your shoulders a little," Nessiah cajoled, leaning into Gulcasa's side with a smile—he knew his lover would cave in soon enough. "You didn't squawk when you knew it would take two to heal me, or when you had to spend months without sex because I flinched away from your every touch. Compared to that, this will be as painless as breathing." He looked up at Gulcasa, widening his eyes a little. "Please?"

"I don't know why I let you sucker me into these things," Gulcasa said with a sigh, but he was already kneeling. "Take off your shoes."

Nessiah did, readily, and carefully balanced on his lover's shoulders while Gulcasa took hold of his ankles and rose to his full height. He was even more careful in selecting his apples—it would be too easy to topple and injure himself if he didn't maintain his stance properly.

"I'm done here," he announced after he'd taken hold of a few round red fruits. "We can go back now."

Gulcasa lowered himself back to the ground with a sigh; Nessiah slipped his shoes back on and put the apples in his basket and they walked placidly along the sidewalk towards the house.

Nessiah could tell that Gulcasa was thinking about something, and that it was worrying him; he didn't ask, but just watched his lover's face patiently as they went. If Gulcasa had something to say, he'd spit it out sooner or later.

Eventually, he sighed. "…It's impossible to fit three lives together perfectly," he said a little awkwardly, staring at the ground.

Nessiah placed a careful hand on his arm. "That may be true," he replied gently, "but you can always fold or tear at the edges so that the pictures fit the frame." He moved his fingertips up and down along the curve of Gulcasa's bicep. "Just look at us… strong and social, quiet and private… the carpenter and the jeweler. There are so many little contradictions just between us, and we've made it work well enough. Things will get easier. We just have to keep trying."

Gulcasa nodded and didn't say anything.

--

When they opened the door, Roswell was already in the kitchen, his hair tied back haphazardly and his old, worn apron covered in flour. He'd been mixing pale batter in a silver bowl, but stopped at the sound of the door, and looked at Gulcasa and Nessiah with very wide blue eyes.

"Today we decided we'd help out with breakfast," Nessiah said, and smiled as he opened his basket to show the results of his and Gulcasa's morning forage.

Roswell flushed pleasantly and accepted the basket, peeking into it to take stock of the fruit.

_"Thank you," _he told them when he looked up, and crossed the room to embrace them both at once. He kissed Gulcasa first, then Nessiah, so that Nessiah could still taste Gulcasa on him when their lips met.

It was strange, Nessiah realized as he sank readily into the circle of warmth the three of them formed. He'd never noticed the empty space there before Roswell had come to fill it.


	6. Jealousy

Jealousy

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though.

_(10pokes prompt #7 – behind the scenes; _we're all quite mad here)

It would be today. Nessiah was sure of it. The tension had been building and building ever since Roswell had so recklessly asked both him and Gulcasa to bed, or perhaps since Nessiah had at last been able to bear being touched again after the incident in Detroit. That was probably when. Gulcasa had been able to tolerate Roswell's presence for as long as he thought that Roswell was necessary, and had begun getting uncomfortable after Nessiah was willing to go back to bed. Poor Gulcasa; he hadn't quite grasped that the wounds that night had inflicted ran far, far deeper than his and Roswell's gentle ministrations could heal so quickly.

And then Roswell had acted, and Gulcasa had been drawn in. It was true that Nessiah had been the one to drag him up to Roswell, but Gulcasa could have turned away if he wasn't interested. The sexual charge that had started between the three of them was too strong.

He was jealous. Of course he was jealous. Gulcasa believed, maybe naïvely, in the truth of soul mates, of destined pairs. Nessiah loved him, and Gulcasa had no reason to doubt that. He just struggled with the fact that Roswell still had a place in Nessiah's heart, still had a right to a different kind of Nessiah's love.

Besides. Between the sex and their living situation, it wasn't just Nessiah's bond to each of them that held them together now. Like an unforeseen side effect, their relationship had fostered certain… undercurrents.

Gulcasa tried to cope with it for Nessiah's sake, but he just kept getting edgier and edgier and more and more awkward and jealous. And Roswell…

Well, Roswell looked like he'd just about reached the end of his tether.

Despite all the time they'd lived together, there were a lot of things about Roswell that Gulcasa still didn't know. And contrary to the popular saying, what you didn't know could do a hell of a lot of damage.

It was a curious thing, Nessiah mused as he sipped his coffee, watching the two men he loved more than anyone in creation glare at each other across the table. He and Gulcasa were usually perceived as the irritable ones, Gulcasa especially. He was always flying off the handle and wrestling with his temper and punctuating arguments with colorful and creative language. Almost everyone Roswell knew would describe him as gentle and placid and sweet, without a mean bone in his body.

Roswell had a temper, a very vicious one. It just took a long, long time to provoke him. But when you did…

Nessiah sipped at his coffee again. They were almost out of it, and a few other things. Someone would need to head into town to restock the pantry.

Whatever was going to happen here wouldn't happen as long as he was in the house. Both Gulcasa and Roswell cared for him too much for that. But Nessiah was tired of this restless and uncomfortable status quo. All three of them were always irritated and frustrated and there was never any peace to be had. So whatever was going to happen, Nessiah was quite ready for his lovers to get on with it already.

There were, he knew, two possible outcomes. He could live with either. And he was fairly sure he knew which it was going to be.

--

"Well, I'm off," Nessiah said suddenly, standing.

"Off?" Gulcasa repeated blankly. "Off where?"

"One of us needs to do the shopping, and so far you two have been picking up most of the chores," Nessiah said pointedly. "I can handle a trip into town, Gulcasa; I'm a rape victim, not an agoraphobic. It's perfectly safe. It's broad daylight. I appreciate your desire to protect me, but I don't need a babysitter _all _the time, you know."

Gulcasa didn't know what he was supposed to say to that. All the things Nessiah had said were true, but this was still the first time he'd ever volunteered to leave the house by himself. Always before he'd never so much as left the street on his own.

"So, as long as you two can handle yourselves without me…" Nessiah retrieved the car keys from the counter and headed out the door. After a few moments, it opened again, and he poked his head inside to say, "Just leave the house standing."

And then he was off.

Gulcasa stared at the wall past Roswell's shoulder. He didn't know what to do or think now.

Several long and frosty minutes passed.

"Look at me," Roswell said, his voice soft and toneless.

Gulcasa didn't reply.

"Damn it, _look _at me." The words snapped out, a little like a slap. "Or do you hate me so much that you can't even do that anymore?"

Temper flared up—God, he didn't even know _why _it was so irritating—and Gulcasa met Roswell's stare furiously. "I never once said I hated you. Stop jumping to goddamn conclusions."

"Why do you have to be like this?" Roswell was on his feet, his sky-colored eyes burning with fury. "Why do you _always _have to be so damn difficult? Isn't it _enough _for you that everything's falling apart, that for the past few days all three of us have been sleeping in separate beds again? It's a wonder that Nessiah hasn't started backsliding yet! _Must _you be so selfish that—"

"Selfish?" Gulcasa repeated. _"Selfish? _Whose house have you been living in? Whose _life _have you been intruding upon? If anyone here is _selfish, _it most certainly is not me!"

Both of them were on their feet now, voices raised, fists bunched.

"I'm not the one who's killing the three of us," Roswell said, his voice deathly quiet.

_"I'm _not the one who insisted there _be _a 'the three of us'," Gulcasa retorted. "I'm not the one who had to push things to a point none of us were ready for—"

"If you hate me so much for it—" Roswell strode around the table. "If you hate me so much for it, then why don't you just tell me so straight to my face? Why don't you just tell me to leave and get it over with?"

"It's not _up _to me—it's not up to either of us! My needs, your needs—they're not what really matter, and if you keep insisting that they do—"

"Then for God's sake, just _look _at me!" Roswell demanded. "Don't live your life avoiding me as if I'm something _repulsive! _Just _look _at me!"

He stood there, more furious than Gulcasa had ever seen him, his chest heaving and his eyes blazing. They stared at each other for five seconds, then ten. And then, before Gulcasa knew how it had happened, he'd closed the distance between them and their bodies were pressed together furiously, hands in each other's hair, Roswell's legs cinched tightly around Gulcasa's waist, lips crushed and working with a sharp violence that was shockingly erotic.

It was like drowning, like falling, completely out of control. Gulcasa couldn't stop, didn't even _want _to stop, and the way Roswell was moaning, it seemed he couldn't either. They hit something—the wall, Gulcasa registered dimly—and he was hard and his hips were already working against Roswell's, making both of them shiver and pant for breath between kisses.

Roswell's hands were fumbling at his shirt, and he came up for air long enough for Roswell to pull it off of him, long enough to rip Roswell's off with such force that he heard its seams protesting. He boosted Roswell up against the wall, lowered his head to trace his lips from the side of Roswell's throat to his chest, feeling him quivering harder and harder until his slim body seemed to be vibrating.

Roswell's hands were at the fly of his jeans, and Gulcasa undid Roswell's, which caused a brief moment of frustration as they struggled out of the last of their clothes. Roswell just stood and panted as Gulcasa ran his hands over that smooth body, until he couldn't seem to take it anymore and gripped Gulcasa's wrists to stop him.

"Here… now…" he managed to get out. "God, please…"

Going upstairs would take too much time, anyway. Gulcasa cast around, his gaze falling on a new plastic bottle of lubricant that they'd bought a while ago but hadn't bothered to put away yet. He reached for it, but Roswell's hands were there first, wrestling with the cap and then tracing the clear blue gel in spirals up the length of Gulcasa's erection. It was cold, but warmed as it touched his skin, a sensation he almost couldn't bear. Swearing, he got the bottle away from Roswell and spread the slightest bit across his fingertips, then hoisted Roswell up again and slid those fingertips inside him to prepare him.

Roswell cried out and gripped his shoulders, splayed against the wall with his eyes closed and his face flushed. Gulcasa worked carefully, but quickly, then plunged in.

His breath was rushing hard, and so was Roswell's; aside from that the only sound was the slap of Roswell's hips against the wall as he thrust hard and deep. He couldn't think; all he could do was feel, and the pleasure was far too overpowering for thought anyway. Roswell was hot and tight and the deeper he thrust the better it felt; Roswell was starting to give little breathy sobs as he went deeper and it was tighter and hotter until suddenly Roswell's body was clutching around him and Roswell came hard against him with a moan and _God _it was good, it was so good, and he couldn't stand it anymore and he let go and while he spilled deep into Roswell's body he slammed them into the wall hard and fast and hard and fast until he couldn't anymore and they slid to the ground in a sitting sprawl, still tangled up in each other.

Gulcasa could barely breathe. It was still impossible to think. He just closed his eyes and panted hard for breath, his arms and shoulders shaking a little. He could feel the muscles in Roswell's belly quivering, released from how tightly they'd clutched in orgasm.

As they sat there, both fighting for air, Roswell leaned closer and began to rock his hips slowly. The hot white beads of semen at the base of his ribs were starting to trickle down the contours of the muscles in his belly. God, he'd never know why it felt so good. Roswell's movements roughened, and Gulcasa could feel himself getting hard again.

Fine. He was nowhere near done.

When he could feel Roswell tight around him, when the need to take grew too painful to bear, Gulcasa spun the two of them around and laid Roswell out flat against the carpet. Before Roswell could do much more than blink in confusion, Gulcasa had his arms up behind him, cuffing both wrists in one hand, and reached down to close his other around Roswell's erection, working his arm until it hurt and Roswell was fully engorged.

"What are—nn—"

Gulcasa didn't answer. He separated Roswell's wrists, covering one with each hand, and thrust into him violently, rapidly, leaning down to cover Roswell's mouth with his own to muffle his shocked cry of pleasure. Thought, consideration, and control were barely more than distant memories. All he was aware of was need; all he could feel was desire, and pleasure. Finally, _finally, _he could take what it was Roswell had so thoughtlessly promised him months ago.

He was as helpless to it as Roswell was, of course. The only thing they could do now was _feel. _Roswell's hips slammed up to meet his own frantically; his thighs were a vise. He was still slick, still wet from the first peak they'd hit, and Gulcasa drove deeper and deeper into his body until Roswell was sobbing hoarsely with every thrust. He was rocking wildly with pleasure, nearly convulsing, until he tore his hands free and set his nails to Gulcasa's back and wrapped his whole body tightly around him and thrust stiffly and rapidly into Gulcasa's belly until it almost hurt. Then he was screaming something Gulcasa couldn't understand as he came, writhing harder and faster until he had nothing left and slumped down against the carpet weakly.

While he trembled from the aftershocks, Gulcasa pressed him harder and harder into the floor, panting hard but barely drawing any air as the world's edges hazed and he thrust fast and deep and desperate until he broke, orgasm as much pain as pleasure as he drove into Roswell until he was spent and his last throes subsided.

They lay there, both gasping, until Gulcasa mustered the strength to push himself up, to bring their bodies apart and collapse into a sitting position against the leg of the kitchen table.

Roswell just kept lying still, his eyes half-open and his body flushed and shiny with sweat. Both of them were covered in it, sticky with it and come and quaking with exhaustion. Gulcasa realized faintly that he felt every bit as bruised and used as Roswell looked. And it scared him a little, how good that felt.

"What the hell are we doing?" he asked in a small and bewildered voice.

Roswell made a low, noncommittal sound. Other than that, he didn't stir.

"I mean, what the hell are we _doing?" _Gulcasa managed a weak shake of his head, blinking. "In the middle of the kitchen with the windows open…"

"I think we were arguing," Roswell said dreamily.

"No kidding…" He and Nessiah had made some very wild and crazy love in the past, but this felt like some kind of epic battle had taken place. "Who won?"

"I don't know." Roswell closed his eyes and sighed, his chest and belly still fluttering rapidly up and down.

Gulcasa took a moment to breathe. He was pretty sure they'd just balled up all their frustration with each other into _sexual _frustration, and… and attacked each other with it, which was why it had come down to this, this blatant sexual _insanity. _Fuck. He hoped their mingled sweat and semen wasn't going to stain the carpet. Nessiah would absolutely kill them if it did.

Nessiah…

Thinking of his lover just made Gulcasa feel guilty and confused until it occurred to him that the way Nessiah had just up and left the house so suddenly might have meant he'd been _planning _for this to happen.

"Damn," he managed.

"Gulcasa," Roswell said plaintively.

"What?"

"…We need to get cleaned up." A pause. "I don't think I can move."

With a groan, Gulcasa managed to lever himself up, and somehow he got Roswell into a reasonable standing position, too. Ignoring the scattered mess of their clothes, they staggered like shellshocked soldiers to the stairs and up them into the bathroom.

Roswell just sat exhaustedly in the bowl of the tub, leaving Gulcasa to hold the extendable showerhead and sluice the evidence of sex off both their bodies. It was several minutes after he'd put it back and they sat beneath its spray before he spoke.

"That was the first time we ever…" he said, resting his cheek on Gulcasa's shoulder.

It _was, _Gulcasa suddenly realized. Of course they'd been in bed together before, but that had always been with Nessiah between them. They hadn't really touched each other directly, and never actually fit their bodies together before.

"It was driving me mad that you wouldn't look at me, wouldn't touch me," Roswell went on distantly. "I knew it would help us if we did, but you never… until now…"

"Should've tried pissing me off before, then," Gulcasa quipped, making him laugh.

"Even so… I feel better," Roswell told him.

They were silent for a while. Gulcasa realized that he felt a lot better, too. Some of that was just the pure relief of sexual release, but even though he could barely string his thoughts together, he felt like his head was really clear for the first time in weeks.

"I don't think I love you," he said, looking down at Roswell beneath the water's spray, "but I know I like you a lot. You mean something to me. I don't know what it is. I know he cares about you, maybe loves you a little." He paused. "Your body's damn beautiful, and I know I like that. I'm sorry, I guess. A first time should be… gentler."

"It's alright," Roswell murmured. "It meant more this way, I think."

Gulcasa nodded. "Alright… if that's the way you feel. …I don't want to fight anymore." Both of them were silent for a while.

At last, he looked down at Roswell again. "…Is that okay?"

Roswell smiled, and slipped his hand into Gulcasa's, squeezing it weakly. "Okay," he whispered.

--

By the time Nessiah came back, Roswell and Gulcasa were curled up on opposite ends of the sofa. Roswell was asleep and apparently naked beneath the blanket, and Gulcasa was only wearing his jeans, his eyes half-open.

Watching them there, Nessiah felt his heart fill, and crossed the room in quiet steps, leaning to put his arms around Gulcasa.

"You're evil," Gulcasa told him sleepily.

Nessiah just laughed. All the tension was gone from the air of the house, returning it to the sanctuary that Gulcasa and Roswell had made it for him when he'd first come here.

"It was going to happen sooner or later," he said softly. "Better now, so that we won't hurt each other anymore. So will you forgive me?"

Gulcasa closed his eyes. "…I guess I'll have to, won't I? Know-it-all…"

Relaxing into the curve of his beloved's body, Nessiah rested his cheek on Gulcasa's shoulder with a sigh and a smile. "I'm glad."


	7. The Ace of Cups

The Ace of Cups

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though. Universal Waite Tarot Deck © U.S. Games Systems, Inc.

_(10pokes prompt #8 – witchcraft; _a happy hand for fortune's fools)

"The wonderful thing about Tarot," Roswell said, "is how incredibly obscure and vague and undefined it is. I doubt there's a single card in the deck that has one simple defined meaning; all the scholars disagree about what it is they're supposed to say. To cast a Tarot fortune properly, you need to know _all _the meanings and understand how they apply to an individual situation. Hence, the happy art of Tarot remains completely incomprehensible to most of the human race. Pull up a chair, now, there's a lad."

Gulcasa did, watching the way the cards flew evenly between and through Roswell's fingers as he shuffled them. Nessiah was also staring, mesmerized by Roswell's easy hand gestures. The cards' backs were dark blue and covered in little gold stars; the front sides carried brightly-colored illustrations, from what Gulcasa could see of them.

"Now, most times I'm merely a kitchen witch at best," Roswell went on. Seeing Gulcasa's confusion, he smiled. "I know the properties of herbs and spices and how to utilize them for spells and safety and potions for your good health, is what I mean. I wield the bolline instead of the wand, the athame, or the sword."

Gulcasa nodded, still lost. Despite the months he and Roswell and Nessiah had lived together, he still knew very little about witchcraft—Wicca, Roswell's religion. Mostly, that was because Roswell was self-contained about it, and didn't broach occult subjects with his housemates unless specifically asked about things. He'd mentioned it in passing shortly after he and Nessiah had moved in, and then it had rarely come up again.

(Even then, it was only to ask Gulcasa if it made him uncomfortable. Gulcasa had answered that it didn't matter to him a bit, and that it actually put them in much the same boat—there were plenty of people across the world who would consign them both to a fiery hell for what they believed.)

"Still, there's always been something about Tarot to me. I must have, what, ten or eleven separate decks by now—I'm using the Universal Waite right now. It's one of the nicer decks, even if Dr. Waite himself was snobbish and preoccupied with the mythological symbology of the cards over the traditional meanings."

"'Something about it', he says," Nessiah drawled. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. "Gulcasa, don't listen to him downplaying it. Roswell is a genius at doing Tarot readings—he used to really rake it in at college giving readings for people. I've had to nag him like crazy to get him to cast cards for us."

"Really?" Gulcasa raised his eyebrows. "Well, damn, what are you doing then? Hurry up and quit your sad excuse for a job at the bookstore and set up a fortune-teller's booth. Help me win the bread here."

Roswell didn't reply to that other than rolling his eyes. "At any rate, who's first?"

Nessiah held out his hand. "Give 'em here," he said with a laugh, and Roswell stopped shuffling and handed the deck over.

"The first thing you do in a reading is choose your indicator card—the one that represents you and your current situation the best," Roswell told Gulcasa as they watched Nessiah flipping through the cards. "You can choose yours based on its meaning, or on your own coloring and personality. That goes for the four suits of minor arcana, anyway. Cups and wands are supposed to best represent fair-haired and –complexioned people, while swords and pentacles answer to darker people."

"Here," Nessiah said, holding out a card to Roswell, who accepted it. While he was looking at it, though, Roswell's face fell.

"…Are you sure about this card?" he asked softly, clearly concerned.

Nessiah just nodded; Roswell sighed and set it on the table in front of them. Gulcasa looked at it, puzzled; the card depicted a large red heart shape being stabbed through by three silver swords. The background of the card was a rainy sky. There was nothing else on it but a "3" in Roman numerals.

"Shuffle," Roswell told Nessiah, who did. Seeing Gulcasa's confused expression, Roswell turned to him and shook his head. "…This card is the Three of Swords, which represents heartbreak or emotional agony. Ever since… well, since we moved here Nessiah's always chosen swords for his significators, and swords are the most miserable of all the suits. Before he was hurt… cups always responded to him. Cups are happy cards."

Nessiah held out the shuffled deck, passing it left-handedly to Roswell, who held it in his right hand and picked up the first card, placing it on top of the Three of Swords. The top centimeter or so of the signifi…whatever he'd called it poked out from beneath the new one, though.

This card showed what looked like a mason chiseling a five-pointed star into an oversized yellow coin. Seven finished ones were scattered across the rest of the card's picture.

"This is what covers you—the Eight of Pentacles," Roswell said. "Craftsmanship in general or a career involving producing the fine arts or the material, usually skillfully." That made sense to Gulcasa—before, Nessiah had been a jeweler. He'd quit his job after he'd been assaulted, though, and nowadays he worked online.

Roswell put another card down; this one he placed horizontally across the other two. It showed a tall tower being hit by lightning, bursting into flame. There were a few people jumping out of it, wearing frightened expressions.

"You're crossed by The Tower," he went on, his grave expression growing sadder. "This card represents nothing short of complete ruin." He was silent for a moment. "…I'm guessing this is referring to your assault. Nessiah, I'm sorry."

Nessiah shook his head. "It's alright." Still, he looked paler than usual, and had crossed his arms a little protectively over his chest, gripping his arms.

Roswell put down a third card above the first two. On it, a nude woman knelt beside a small pool of water, pouring water both into it and on the grass next to her. She had one foot planted firmly on the water's surface. In the night sky above her was a huge yellow star.

"The Star crowns you—it can symbolize loss and anxiety, but also hope. This card is a generic representation of the questioner's destiny," Roswell told Gulcasa, "and I have to say I'm glad to see a card that isn't miserable on here. Behind you, we have…" He placed another card down on the left side of the first ones and winced. "The Ten of Swords. Looks like I spoke too soon."

Gulcasa could understand that wince. This card depicted a corpse prone on the bloody ground with ten swords in its back.

"This card represents total misery, pain, affliction, sorrow, agony—the gamut of everything that's sad or hurtful. In this position, it depicts the past." Roswell shook his head again. "In this context, while it does represent the attack on Nessiah, I believe it also shows how unhappy he was living apart from you in the first place."

"I never exactly enjoyed being alone in Detroit," Nessiah said softly, with an effort at humor. Gulcasa put an arm around his shoulders.

"Moving on—beneath you is the Knight of Wands." Roswell heaved a relieved-looking sigh as Gulcasa looked at the card—it had a knight in full armor on his galloping charger, carrying a thick staff in his hand. The staff seemed to be alive; it had leaves and twigs on it. "A journey or change of residence. This is the recent past, and it shows Nessiah and myself moving here."

"Something else positive," Nessiah said dryly. "Are we to be celebrating now?"

"Hush." But Roswell was smiling as he scolded. "Before you is the Two of Swords." It showed a girl in a blindfold holding two swords braced on her shoulders. "One of the better cards in the sword suit. This represents friendship, loyalty, affection, courage, and intimacy. This position is associated with the present and immediate future; I'd guess it displays your recovery and growth through our relationship."

Gulcasa didn't know why that card relieved him so much; before he could really wonder, Roswell was moving on. He placed the next four cards in a vertical line beside the cross the other cards had formed, starting at the bottom and placing the last card at the top.

"These four cards concern the present and future only," he said, and pointed to the lowest one. "The Four of Swords. Nessiah, this represents yourself and your attitude towards your situation. The Four of Swords is a card of solitude, repose, introspection, and reclusion. You've intentionally withdrawn from the world to aid your recovery, and to protect yourself from any further harm. Next is The Lovers, in the space for your surroundings and your living situation. The card represents love, domestic harmony, commitment, and challenges overcome by cooperation. In the space for your hopes, dreams, and fears, we have Judgement. People usually read it as choices made, fate, or the end, but here the meaning is closer to rebirth. And finally, for the outcome, the Ace of Cups. Aside from The Sun, it's the happiest card of them all. Truth, joy, contentment, peace, and general well-being."

These were nicer-looking cards than the others in the reading. The first was a church bier that held the statue of a praying knight; the second was a naked man and woman under the guard of a red-winged angel; the third showed the angel of judgment blowing his horn and the rejoicing dead rising from their graves; the last depicted an overflowing cup in the palm of a heavenly hand.

"In summation…" Roswell folded his hands on the table and gave Nessiah a sympathetic smile. "These cards reflect your recovery. Being attacked damaged you much more than you let even the two of us see, but we have been able to help you, and if we stay together and support each other, you'll eventually be healed—if not completely, then near enough to it. Brighter days _are _coming, Nessiah. I know you've started realizing that."

Nessiah was silent for a moment; then he turned to Gulcasa, a smile on his face although his eyes were damp and far too bright. "You see? I told you he's good."

Gulcasa didn't reply. He just kissed Nessiah's forehead and held him a little tighter, unable to help feeling slightly guilty. He'd spent so much time being difficult over Roswell's presence that he'd almost lost sight of the real reason they were all here together. Now that their arguments were mostly resolved, he wouldn't let himself forget again.

"Your turn now," Roswell announced. Gulcasa froze.

_"My _turn?"

"We can help you choose your significator, since you don't seem to know much about Tarot," Roswell offered.

"The Emperor," Nessiah said immediately. "It fits him best."

"True," Roswell replied, smiling at him. To Gulcasa he said, "The Emperor symbolizes protection in times of need, authority, and aid. It's one of the major arcana, which respond best to strong personalities—so we'll use that for you." He placed a card showing a man on a throne on the table, and slipped all the ones from Nessiah's reading back into the deck. "Shuffle them, and give them to me with your left hand the way that he did."

Gulcasa did as he was told, and waited a little apprehensively as Roswell began to lay down the top cards. "Covering you is… the King of Pentacles. A card of valor, and success due to courage. You're crossed by Death, which represents drastic change, and crowned by the Four of Wands. It's a symbol of harmony, peace, and prosperity." The cards showed respectively a man in dark robes on a throne, a mail-clad skeleton, and a country manor beneath a garland held up by four wooden poles.

"Behind you is The Fool, which is an unwise decision or venture. Beneath you is the Knight of Pentacles, which represents responsibility. And before you is the Ace of Pentacles, which represents felicity and contentment. Quite a few pentacles in this hand so far—they're a suit that symbolizes wealth and generosity for the most part, in case you're wondering." These cards showed a man walking towards the edge of a cliff, a knight on a black horse, and a heavenly hand holding the coin-like pentacle symbol.

"So far, your fortune seems to be describing the same events Nessiah's did, but concerning you instead of him. Accepting us into your home has turned your life upside down, whether we intended it or not. Still, it showed greatness of spirit for you to do that, considering that it would." Roswell shook his head. "The foolish decision showed here—I wonder if that refers to your and Nessiah's agreement to live apart for a while? Anyhow, let's move on to the present and future…

"Your current position here is… Strength." Roswell laid down a card that showed a young maiden holding a lion's mouth shut. "It represents moral strength as well as physical. Your environment is… well, this is a bit odd. It's The Lovers, the same as in Nessiah's fortune. Your hopes and dreams… the Two of Cups, a symbol of passion, love, and idealistic commitment." This card showed a man and woman who looked like they were exchanging vows. "And the last card… this is _very _odd; it's the Ace of Cups again."

Roswell stared at the cards for a while without speaking, then gathered them up and began to shuffle them again, frowning all the while.

Gulcasa tilted his head to the side—once again, he was completely lost.

"I think the similarity between your casting and mine has gotten him curious," Nessiah said mildly. "He's probably going to cast himself now. It won't take nearly as long."

"Starting—with—the King of Cups. And covering that… the High Priestess," Roswell murmured, beginning to place cards rapidly. "Crossed by Death… crowned by… the Ten of Cups. Behind me is… the Six of Cups. And beneath, the Knight of Cups. Before me, the Three of Cups. The last four are… Temperance. The Lovers. The Two of Cups. And the Ace of Cups." Sitting back, he stared at his fortune and blew out a long sigh, shaking his head. "…This is _fascinating. _Certain points of all of our castings are different, due to differences in our perspective, but several of the key cards are exactly the same."

"Yeah, but what does it _mean?" _Gulcasa asked plaintively. "You know—for us slow students, here."

Nessiah elbowed him; Gulcasa took it in stride.

"The most telling aspect is that we all received the Ace of Cups as our final outcome. D'you see? And we didn't ask the cards any particular questions—these are just randomized fortunes. _Fascinating. _The cards themselves, or whoever it is that sits around answering Tarot questions all day, is hinting that though this union of ours is decidedly strange, awkward, and sometimes difficult… it's blessed. If we can stay together, then we'll be happy."

"You needed a deck of cards by some guy whose ideas you don't hold with to know _that?" _Gulcasa asked.

Roswell just shrugged.

"Maybe not, but isn't it nice to know for sure?"


	8. Traveling

Traveling

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does); Camry © Toyota. The idea for this living situation is mine, though.

(_10pokes prompt #9 – road trip; _these are the times that life has a rhythm)

The car was an old black Toyota. It had been battered and abandoned on the side of the road when Roswell had discovered it; his descriptions of how forlorn it had seemed made all three of them sure that they _had _to have it. There hadn't been much wrong with it; it had only needed a body job and some basic repairs to start running again. Of course, once they'd thought they were finished with it, Roswell had gone on and made their joint expenditure funds bleed converting it to run on diesel, then bio-diesel. Gulcasa had been furious; Roswell had explained, patient but annoyed, that this would save them a great deal of money and trouble later on. He had turned out to be right. Gulcasa had never apologized.

As a last touch, Roswell had carefully and lovingly airbrushed three roses haloed in leaves and thorns on the side of the car, in the space between its back left door and wheel: black-to-burgundy for himself, blue for Nessiah, red for Gulcasa. And it had been theirs.

The time of year varied. Sometimes it was right when spring slipped towards summer, sometimes it was during the transition to autumn. But whenever it happened, they loaded the trunk with changes of clothes and fuel and a tarp and oversized blanket, and off they drove.

At first there was always a kind of excitement and pent-up energy to it. They'd fly down highways and country roads with the windows down and the radio cranked up and blasting, or a mix tape or CD in where at least one of the three of them was always singing along. At sundown, they'd start looking for a motel, and would spend the early hours of the night wearing themselves into exhaustion with nearly frantic lovemaking. They'd sleep close together in a tangled ball of limbs until an hour or two past sunrise, treat themselves to whatever the buffet had to offer, and leave.

After the first few days to the first week, the energy would wear into simple enjoyment, and they would settle into rhythm and routine—they'd spend days driving without a single stop. During the nights, the driver would take his turn for a few hours, then pull out onto the shoulder and come to a stop. He'd get out and open the back door on where one of the others would be sleeping, poke him awake, and take his place; whoever was riding shotgun would slip behind the wheel, and whoever'd been rudely awakened would sit up front and watch the lights and listen to the soft music until he was functional again.

For food, they would stop at restaurants—whenever they were passing through town and they knew they had to eat something. Or, if they were heading out where they knew there wasn't any habitation, they would stop at a store and stock up on something just in case.

Once their routine had been set, the stops at motels only came when they could no longer stand their proximity without physicality. There were times when they weren't able to find anything; on one such incident, when they'd parked beside an open, abandoned field, Roswell stole into the backseat with Nessiah while Gulcasa slept up front. With the door open a few inches to avoid any telltale window fogging, they made slow and silent love—they couldn't have borne not to touch each other for any longer.

There was never any set destination. The first few times, they had placed a pin in a map and headed wherever it landed; once they knew that they were only driving for the driving, they would simply travel until they felt it was time to turn around and head home.

There would always be at least one such trip every year.

It wasn't because they needed the thrill, or wanted to explore. It wasn't because it was the cheapest available vacation—quite the contrary; even without petroleum fuel, the restaurant and motel stops always burned a deep hole in the money they brought. Rather, the road trips they took had become a tradition because of the way they'd found that this was the easiest way they could live in harmony, find a natural rhythm—the kind of cooperation there was never interrupted by jealousy or sexual power struggles.

On the road, they could simply _be._


	9. The Long Way Home

The Long Way Home

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though. "Bubbly" © Colbie Callait.

_(10pokes prompt #10 – winter;_ been asleep for a while now)

Gulcasa woke warm and comfortable and so thirsty his throat felt prickly. He had no idea what time it was, and he did _not _want to get up. It would be cold downstairs, and there was no way in hell he was going to wrestle back into clothing when he'd just have to wrestle out of it to get back in bed. But he needed a drink, or he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

He glanced quickly at his bedmates. Both were asleep; Nessiah was closely cuddled between his body and Roswell's, a tight little ball beneath the snarled nest they'd made of the sheets and blankets and comforter. Roswell lay liquidly on his side, his belly up against Nessiah's back and an arm around his waist, his hair strewn across the pillow and his shoulder bare to the cold. They'd fallen asleep a little like this, except that then Nessiah had faced the other way and Gulcasa'd had an arm over them both.

Very slowly, very carefully, Gulcasa eased himself out of bed—he didn't want to wake either one of them up, not when they looked so peaceful—and carefully padded across the room. Not for the first time, he was extremely grateful that they were no longer at the old house—all the bedrooms had extremely creaky floorboards and there'd been three places in his and Nessiah's room where just a touch could make them go off like a shot.

Naked, sleepy, and no little bit annoyed, he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was bitchy cold, despite the fact that they had the heat on; scowling, he walked to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches to see that it was still snowing hard. Thinking of the pileup there'd be tomorrow for him to shovel, he swore vividly and let the fabric drop. God, maybe he'd just go with Nessiah for once and refuse to head out until it all blew over.

There was still some champagne left over, but alcohol at this hour probably wasn't a good idea, and the bottle was Nessiah's—since Roswell didn't drink, he'd know right away Gulcasa had been in it and be furious. Half the cider was left, too, so Gulcasa went through the cabinet for a glass and poured himself some. The stuff was best hot, but he wouldn't say no to it cold.

Sipping, he sat at the table. His stepmother's letter still poked out from beneath one of the placemats; he didn't need to read it for the memory of its contents to make him smile. She'd sent winter's greetings to him, along with pictures of herself and his sisters—the twins were seniors in college now and Emilia in her last year of high school; worse, there were light crow's-feet on his stepmother's face and gray streaks in her hair. It made him wonder where the hell the time went.

She'd also invited him and the others downstate for Hanukkah, saying pointedly that as long as he was living in sin with beautiful young men, he might as well bring those young men around to meet the family. It had really made him laugh to picture her wicked grin as she wrote it, and besides, it was about time for the madwomen of his clan to adopt Roswell anyhow. It had been too priceless watching their reactions to Nessiah, and Roswell would probably be able to handle them with a bit more grace.

Tired again, Gulcasa finished his cider and set the glass next to the sink. He'd wash it in the morning. Maybe. If Roswell didn't beat him to it.

Stretching, he meandered back over to the stairs, then up them.

Able to concentrate on something other than thirst, he realized as he passed the open door of the studio-and/or-office that the stereo was still on, softly. They'd put in the mix disc of gentle love songs much earlier, but they'd all fallen asleep too quickly after they'd made love to turn it off.

He pushed the door open a little wider, leaning in with sleepy curiosity. It was that song Roswell had fallen in love with the first time he heard it, the one about the girl and her lover just lying in bed comfortably because he made her feel so safe and loved. It sounded like it was almost done playing.

_"I've been asleep for a while now, you tuck me in just like a child now. 'Cause every time you hold me in your arms, I'm comfortable enough to feel your warmth. It starts in my soul, and I lose all control; when you kiss my nose, the feeling shows. 'Cause you make me smile, baby, just take your time now, holding me tight…"_

Gulcasa leaned against the doorframe for a moment, listening. He wasn't going to turn it off, he decided. The sound was sweet and soothing, and it'd probably help him get back to sleep easier.

It took effort to shift his weight so he was standing up straight, but he did it, and continued his increasingly somnolent steps back into their room and towards the bed.

Nessiah and Roswell were both still asleep; it didn't look like they'd moved. Gulcasa eased his weight back across the mattress and pulled the covers back over himself, then leaned over a little to tug them up over Roswell's exposed shoulder. He kissed Nessiah's forehead, then Roswell's, and pressed a second kiss to Nessiah's cheek before finally settling against the pillows and closing his eyes.

Before he drifted off to sleep, he felt Nessiah snuggle closer against him, nestling into his body heat. From the shift of fabric afterwards, Roswell had in turn leaned closer into his back, pressing the three of them tightly together. It made him smile.


End file.
